


The Chasms Between

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Nondescript Mention of Character Death, Past Life Death, Past Lives, Pining, Soul Bond, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, soul mates, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has come to the terms with the fact that him and Derek are never going to be together in this life.They have way too many unresolved issues. Besides, Derek doesn't want him, he knows that much.</p><p>He's wrong, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. maybe this is danger and you just don't know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alesaaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alesaaz/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Los Abismos En El Medio.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236681) by [Alesaaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alesaaz/pseuds/Alesaaz)



> Ale prompted me with: “We only remember each other in alternating lifetimes so every lifetime we have to find one another and convince each other that we’re soulmates but half the time I won’t believe you and half the time you’re already dating someone else" [found here](http://queenkairi.co.vu/post/113662145321/some-reincarnation-aus).
> 
> It was only supposed to be a Tumblr fic and then my brain ran away with it. In all honesty, I probably could have written 80K of this before I was completely satisfied, but that's slightly out of hand. Forewarning, there's a whole lot of heartache in this one. I might make you cry.
> 
> As always, thanks to Raleigh for the beta, you're the best!
> 
> I tried a little something different with the writing style, hope you enjoy.

“How much of an idiot are you?” Derek asks. Oh, Derek. Derek with the nice face and the nice hair and the nice arms and the nice _everything_ , really. Enviable, but also able to be the object of affection. Affiable – Envection -- Those aren’t even words…

“Whatever took Erica and Boyd is still out there and you are _drinking_ in your Jeep.”

“On a scale of one to ten? C’mon, it’s the best place to drink, I won’t get caught,” Stiles says, twisting up out of the backseat, up just enough to see Derek’s disapproving face. The movement dislodges the bottle of Jack from under him and it rolls away pitifully. Stiles gropes around until he finds the neck, swinging it back up. It unceremoniously hits him in the face on the way up. “Fuck.”

“You’re at a ten right now,” Derek says. “Getting caught by your dad is better than dying at the hands of whatever is out here, Stiles.” Stiles’ equilibrium shifts radically as Derek yanks him up by his shirt. The bottle swings precariously in his fingers.

“Probably not,” Stiles argues, blinking at Derek, trying to clear his head. There’s a reason Stiles is even out here in the first place. That reason is _Derek_ with his be-stubbled face and be-dazzling eyes. It’s dumb and Stiles _hates it_.

Well no, Stiles doesn’t hate the face, _no one_ could hate the face. He hates how the face makes him _feel_. Like there’s honey on his insides, sticky and slick, filling all of his crevices. Like there’s straw in his veins and cotton in his head. It’s weighing him down, dragging him under.

“You’re hopeless,” Derek says, pressing him back with his big, warm hands. Stiles feels unfairly flushed all over. Stiles’ head rolls across the Jeep’s seat. In no time, Derek’s in the front seat, steering them away from the Preserve.

“Hopelessly in love with you,” Stiles sighs. Everything that Derek does makes him _want_ with every fiber of his being. Wanting so badly that his teeth _ache_ , his veins constrict at the thought of touching Derek. Stiles drags the bottle across the seat, taking another drink. Derek’s eyes watch him in the rearview mirror. They look dark. They’re not actually dark.

“Are you talking to yourself?” Derek asks, eyebrows going up. Judgmental eyebrows. Stiles scoffs. It sounds whiskey-deep and desperate.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t hear,” Stiles says, frowns. “Like you -- You heard me, you’ve got that whole wolf hearing going on.”

Stiles flutters his hands at Derek’s ears. In truth, he’s not drunk enough for this. It would take another third of a bottle to get him to the point where he _actually_ wasn’t in control of what came out of his mouth. He’s consciously making the decision to drunkenly confess to Derek. That might be an oxymoron. He’s not fully drunk, he’s confessing to Derek, he knows exactly what he’s saying. He’ll deny all of those things in the morning.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“Are you good?” Derek asks, purposefully condescending. Stiles snorts at him, again. When he takes a drink, the Jack burns down his throat and makes his eyes water. Stiles can feel it in his nose.

“Can I tell you story?” he asks, making sure to slur the ‘s’. The more drunk Derek thinks he is, the more plausible deniability he’ll have in the morning. It’s just too painful, he can’t hold onto it any longer. He’s not a martyr. Far from.

“What will that accomplish, Stiles?” Derek asks, it sounds like one long sigh. Things are going to change between them. Stiles isn’t going to answer.

“Once upon a time, there were two souls,” Derek’s eyes stay on the road, but Stiles stares at him in the rearview. “Those souls were so in love that they met with a witch of considerable power and had her tie their souls together. The witch made it so that – so, no matter _what_ life they were in or _where_ they ended up, they would find each other. They were meant for each other. _Made_ for each other. They made _themselves_ for each other.”

“What are you talking about, Stiles?”

“Soulmates, mate-mates, reincarnated mates! Souls tied together, that take trips together through...through all of time and space, all that timey-wimey Doctor Who bullshit. They do it together, every time. Reincarnated together.”

“A witch did this to them?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Stiles?” Derek asks, eyes meeting Stiles’ in the mirror again. There’s something wrong about his expression that Stiles can’t place. Disbelieving, a little mocking, something else in his eyes that Stiles doesn’t try to put a name to. Stiles tips his chin up defiantly.

“Yes,” Stiles says. It sounds bitter, bit off too hard by his big mouth. He’s an idiot. If Stiles remembers the past lives, then Derek doesn’t at all. That’s the catch. There’s always a catch, right?

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, frowning. Stiles esophagus burns with everything he can’t say.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mister _Werewolf_. Lycanthropy is real, but god-forbid energy be recycled in the universe in a specific manner.”

“That’s not reincarnation.”

“You don’t know that!” Stiles says, a little off kilter, a little annoyed. “You don’t even think it’s a thing, you can’t tell me that I’m wrong just because you feel like being contradictory. It’s called Conservation of Energy.”

“I know what conservation is,” Derek says, face flat. There’s no emotion, no expression. A blank wall. Stiles doesn’t know how he can hold his face that still. How he can feel nothing.

“Do you? I was under the impression that you dropped out of high school when your family was murdered,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. The air in the car goes rubber-band tense. Stiles feels like snarling at him. There’s a caged animal rattling around in his chest.

“This is why we don’t hang out, Stiles,” Derek says, with a sigh. “You say stupid shit like that.” Stiles sinks down in his seat, doesn’t say anything.

The Jeep stops in front of his house with a lurch. The windows are dark, driveway empty. His dad is working late, working overtime to try and find Boyd and Erica. Stiles stumbles out of the Jeep, leg getting caught on the side. When he finally rights himself, Derek is in front of him. The exhaustion is hard to see, but Stiles is observant. There are barely-there bruises under his eyes, skin pale and paper-thin.

“What are you trying to say, Stiles?” Derek asks. It takes Stiles a minute to catch up, not sure what he means until he remembers the story he was trying to tell Derek about the witch. Derek’s curious, Stiles can tell. He wants to know, but he wants to _not_ want to know. It must be hell to be in that head of his.

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?” Stiles demands, indignant. It sounds like an insult if he ever heard one. It sounds like a barrier between them. Stiles’ name, full stop.

“Because it’s your name,” Derek says, shifting his weight. The door is all the way behind Derek. Stiles doesn’t want to get past Derek to get to it. He hates this so much. He can feel the hot burn of emotions heavy in his esophagus, pressing their way out of him.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Derek?” Derek’s name, full stop. Put that barrier up. The look in Derek’s eyes doesn’t soften. If anything, it goes the opposite way, hardening against Stiles. They’re having the same conversation, Derek just doesn’t want to admit it.

“No.”

All of Stiles’ veins constrict, it’s like a punch in the gut. The worst part is, it’s not a surprise.

Stiles moves back, feels the Jeep door pressing against his shoulder. He twists and grabs the bottle out of the backseat. It’s almost empty. When he drains it, he walks down the street to throw it in the neighbor’s recycle. Better safe than sorry. Derek doesn’t follow, but his eyes are solid weights on Stiles’ back.

When he walks back, Derek is still staring at him.

“Are we done?” Stiles asks him. Any pretense of drunkenness he had has evaporated. It’s not worth it to even pretend. He is buzzed. It might have taken a few hours, but he finished off over half a bottle of Jack alone. What an accomplishment.

“Why does that story matter to you?” Derek asks, voice dropping low. He didn’t tag Stiles’ name onto an end, barrier has been dropped. Stiles tilts his head back and laughs bitterly.

“Don’t —”

“Stiles,” and there’s his name again. Slow, elastic, sticky. Stiles’ eyes feel heavy as he steps up to Derek and presses a kiss to his lips. For Stiles it’s electric, infusing his whole body with a sense of _right_ that he can’t deny. The world tilts and aligns when their lips meet. Derek doesn’t kiss him back.

Stiles moves away quickly, brushing past Derek to go into his house.

“Do you think you could love me?” Stiles asks. The key slides into the lock, but he doesn’t turn it just yet. His heart is cinched in his chest, painfully tight.

“Probably not,” Derek says. Stiles doesn’t bother saying anything else. He goes inside and slams the door.

 

 

The story about the witch isn’t a lie.

In a life long ago, the first life that Stiles and Derek fell in love in, they did that. They had a witch mend their souls together so that there was no “death do us part”. It was logical at the time, they were so in love. Now, Stiles doesn’t know if it was the best thing to do. Only because he _knows_. It sounded like the perfect solution to love and death, but it wasn’t.

There are stacks of notebooks in his room, shoved into the corners of his closet. Details of dreams on every single page. Dreams that are actually memories of past lives, lives that Stiles has lived, lives that his soul travelled through. There are a few things he’s established:

First, there’s no rules for time. That whole wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey? Yeah, that’s basically how it goes. Time - it loops and curls and backtracks and retracts without explanation. It has its own rules that don’t seem to adhere to Earth physics. Stiles doesn’t try to dissect it. The chronological order of his lives isn’t _in chronological_ order. He jumped from 1940 to 856 CE one time, back to back. Technically backwards. Totally logical for the nonlinear rules of time, though.

Second, the rhyme applies. ‘One in ignorance, one in love’. It’s like a tag line. The witch broke their souls apart and reformed them. Each soul with pieces of the other: fractured, but whole. A broken soul only seeks to be mended, so their souls search for each other always, for their missing pieces. That ensured that they were always drawn to each other, no matter what. Stiles and Derek didn’t anticipate the witch having a quid pro quo. The catch was that in every life, only one of them knows that they’re soulmates. Only one of them has the memories of past lives, of them _together_.

Third, they’re _never together_. Ever. They are always apart, alone, without each other. Whenever they find each other, _if_ they find each other, there’s always something that inhibits them from _being_ together. Usually, one thinks the other is absolutely insane for proposing that they’re soulmates, but there are other factors. Other people, sometimes death. It sucks. It leaves him hollow and aching, a gaping wound where his heart should be.

The lives themselves are interesting. Stiles gets glimpses of what different times are like, what it would be like to be something other than human. Everything is different. The time, the place, the face, the name, the species… They change and rotate and flow and alter.

The only thing that stays the same is the deep-seated longing for Derek. The constant ache in his chest; the vibration of his atoms insisting that he gets closer, that he be with Derek. It’s anguish that it never, _ever_ happens.

 

 

Before Stiles got drunk they had a fight about him helping Derek look for Erica and Boyd. 

Derek said, “There’s no reason for you come along, you know that?”

Derek said, “You know that I need _Scott’s_ help, right? Not yours.”

Derek said, “You’re _human_. You’re not going to be able to help me.”

Derek said, “You’re useless, Stiles.”

Stiles said, “Fuck you, Derek. Jesus Christ, I’m trying to help and all you can do is go on about _Scott_. Who doesn’t want to help you, by the way. Why, because you _lied_ to him and you _manipulated_ him. That’s literally the only thing you _can do_ , isn’t it? Manipulate people into helping you, manipulate them into taking the bite. I’m not the one who’s useless, you’re the one who’s useless.”

Stiles said, “How many times would you have died if we hadn’t saved your ass? We’re the ones who molotov’d Peter’s ass. If we hadn’t have been there, you would have lost to him and you know it. The pool? You would have _drowned_. Don’t act like you’re good at this.”

Stiles said, “You lost your betas and you won’t let me help? Good fucking luck, dude.”

Stiles has it on good authority that Derek tore apart the inside of a train car after that fight. No words came from him, just angry huffs and noises that gauged deeper into Stiles’ chest the more wounded he started to sound. Stiles knows because he listened just outside the train station, wishing he had the balls to apologize.

Maybe Stiles was an idiot to think that Derek would be any more pliable after, y’know, Stiles kept saving his life. Not even _counting_ the wolfsbane bullet, because technically that was Scott, but the pool? C’mon. Then, that comment: Useless. Like Stiles wasn’t the one acting as a go-between with Scott and the betas and _Derek_. 

Fucking useless.

Ungrateful more like.

The fights don’t change anything either. When daylight comes and they have to work together, they act like nothing happened, like they didn’t flay each other open with just their words, cutting deeper and deeper until they were both bleeding. 

At least Stiles’ drunken love confession didn’t obliterate any chance of them being _normal_ around each other either. The fights, the feelings. It doesn’t change how well they work together. It doesn’t change how good they are for each other. 

Stiles should have known it wouldn’t last. 

Derek gets a _girlfriend_. It makes Stiles want to strip his skin off, it’s so _wrong_. It just _grates_ his nerves. A t-shirt too short and too tight, rubbing the wrong way. Stiles avoids him until he can’t. Yeah, letting Derek know his girlfriend is a psychopathic, murderous fiend? Saves his ass, once again. Apparently Derek is just hopeless without Stiles. Which, _duh_ , they went over that. Only Stiles is too busy being worried sick about his dad to take the time to rub it in Derek’s face.

At least Derek believes him, right? At least they save the day. At least Derek acts like everything is normal between them. At least Stiles never has to see him with Jennifer again, right? 

At least Derek leaves, right?

That’s better than having to be around him, unstable friendship and all, wobbling on one leg. At least Stiles doesn’t have to deal with the aborted touches and the way they talk circles around each other. At least if Derek’s gone, he doesn’t have to deal with being around him and not being able to be _with_ him. The dull ache of loneliness is miles better than Derek being there and brushing Stiles off continually. Close, but not too close.

That’s better, right?

 

 

The nightmares are vicious. Stiles has had nightmares before. There have been a few times where Derek ended up dying in front of Stiles in other lives -- Like when Stiles was a mermaid and Derek was shipwrecked. When Stiles dragged him up to the surface and got him to breathe, the first words were relief: “There you are.” Talking to Stiles even though Stiles had _no clue_ and didn’t speak his language. The life drained out of Derek in less than an hour, but he spent the time watching Stiles with eyes green as ocean depths and Stiles felt how right it was in his chest. 

Or when Stiles met Derek when they were riding the rails in the ‘30s. They shared some banter, almost didn’t cross paths at all. Stiles fell off the top of the train the next day and broke his neck on the fall.

That was traumatizing alone, but the nightmares he gets --

Drowning, on fire, trapped underground, gasping for breath. Screaming until his lungs give out, but not making a sound. Elbow deep in his dad’s blood, Scott’s blood, Derek’s blood. Suffocating slowly, the pressure on his chest -- He can’t breathe --

“I think I have PTSD,” Stiles says. It’s the wrong side of midnight. It’s too late, it’s not a good time.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Derek says, after a beat too long. He sounds tired, but not exhausted, like the reprieve is good. It might be for _him_ , but Stiles can feel it in his chest.

“I’m having nightmares,” Stiles sounds like nails on a chalkboard. “They feel so real. Sometimes, I think I’m awake. It doesn’t make sense. I dream all the time about real shit, but this feels so different.”

He doesn’t know why he’s telling Derek this. Derek doesn’t like him that much. Well, that’s probably a lie. After everything they’ve been through, Derek likes him just fine. They _trust_ each other, but Stiles was right about the night on the preserve changing things. Whatever tentative relationship they had built up started to teeder and sway after that.

“You dream every night?” Derek asks. Stiles looks at the ceiling, feels Derek’s voice move through him like a dowsing rod.

“I -- Yes.”

“What about?”

“Nothing,” Stiles lies.

“Stiles.” There’s his name again, full stop.

“Witches,” Stiles admits.

“Not the soul splitting witch?” Derek asks. Stiles wishes more than anything that Derek was the one that had been drinking that night. Maybe he would forget the conversation and spare Stiles the humiliation.

“Sure.”

“What you said --”

“Let’s not talk about that,” Stiles says, faux-chipper and frantic. It takes everything in him not to hang up.

“You said you were in love with me,” Derek pushes. Stiles laughs. This isn’t funny.

“It’s 3am and you’re -- You’re -- I don’t even know _where_ you are. You want to have this conversation _now_?” Stiles says.

“I’m in South America --”

“Wow, how’s the weather?”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Don’t say my name like that, _Derek_.” His name, full stop. It feels like a wall between them.

“This isn’t a Lydia thing, is it?” Derek asks. Stiles’ brain doesn’t compute.

“A Lydia thing? What Lydia thing? Wait -- How do you _know_ about that?” Stiles demands. There’s a film of sweat on his palm, nerves and more. This conversation is getting rapidly out of hand.

“Cora went to school with you,” the line crackles when Derek sighs, like Stiles is being difficult on purpose.

“What does that have to do with --”

“I just don’t want you to get fixated --”

“ _Fixated_?” Stiles demands, voice jumping louder. It cracks through the silence of the room like a bullwhip. Derek stops talking, the line drops down to negative decibels. Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to steady his shaking heart.

“You’re young, Stiles,” Derek says, frustration in his voice. “You’re too young --”

“To be in love, but not too young to deal with mass murder and supernatural creatures? Way to be narrow minded, you dick. Fuck off.”

Stiles hangs up and flings his phone at the wall, anger racing through his veins. There’s no satisfaction in telling Derek off, it just makes the cold burn in his chest intensify. Anxiety settles heavy in the pit of his stomach. It takes him hours to fall asleep.

 

 

In this lifetime, Derek is so fractured. It makes his face look drawn and exhausted. Hard lines and clenched jaw. Stiles knows what a happy Derek looks like -- It’s completely different from how Derek looks now. It makes his eyes crinkle, makes him approachable and mellow, lighting up from the inside. Derek in this life is a carefully constructed wall that bars everything from him.

When Stiles saw Derek that first day in the woods, his brain went “this is _it_ , there he is!”. Of course, nothing is that simple. They were thrown together, but not in the way that Stiles wanted them to be. Derek didn’t trust Stiles, he didn’t want to trust Stiles. It would never be as easy as waltzing up to Derek and telling him that they were soulmates, that they were meant to be together. It would make Stiles look _insane_. It might not be what Derek even wants. Stiles can’t force things between them, he knows that will drive them further apart.

It tore Stiles apart and he couldn’t do _anything_ about it. Stiles wanted to hold Derek, take care of him. He wanted to mend Derek with his own hands, reassure him that he was loved. God, more than anything Derek was loved. Love that filled Stiles to the brim and threatened to spill over. It was all for Derek and Derek had no idea.

 

 

After the nogitsune combusts, they regroup at Deaton’s. Stiles doesn’t want to be there -- Allison and Aiden’s deaths feel like a brand on his skin. Whatever influence the nogitsune had over his body isn’t gone. He’s exhausted, fading fast. Every thought that moves through his head is half-formed, dipped in molasses. Humiliated, he stands to the side, trying desperately not to think about what happened when he was possessed.

“Stiles?” Scott asks, hands gentle as he pull Stiles out of his head and into the conversation. Stiles didn’t realize just how out of it he was. He blinks at the room, everyone’s staring at him.

“What?”

“I was wondering aloud,” Deaton says, walking over. His hands reach for Stiles, pausing in air. It takes Stiles a minute to realize that Deaton’s waiting for permission to touch him. Takes even longer to decide that it’s okay. Stiles nods in agreement. He just wants this to be over.

“Usually, a void merges with a vessel,” Deaton says, pushing up Stiles’ eyelids to gaze into his eyes, hands gentle on his body like a physical check. “In your case, the void split instead. Do you know what could have influenced that?”

Stiles doesn’t get it.

“What causes a void to merge?” Isaac asks. Stiles jerks in surprise, staring at him. Isaac refuses to meet his eyes.

“A void fuses with a soul, becoming one --”

Stiles bursts out laughing.

He can’t help it. It’s not actually funny, but something about the situation. It tears out of him in harsh gasps, eyes prickling with amused tears. Hysterical tears: like he said, it’s not funny.

“He’s lost his mind,” Isaac sneers. Stiles flips him off.

“I fail to see the amusement in the situation,” Deaton says. It’s gentle, but his stare is heavy on Stiles. Stiles snorts, looking around the room. Lydia is half-passed out in a chair in the corner, eyes heavy from crying. Isaac is leaning against the wall, miserable and angry. Scott hovers at his side, Kira left, Ethan is in the hall. Allison is gone, gone, gone.

Derek stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Stiles meets his eyes. They hold for too long. Stiles is going to fuck things up again.

“Care to enlighten us?” Deaton prompts.

“My soul is occupied,” Stiles says, simply. Everyone stares at him in confusion. Even Lydia’s head comes up, questioning, searching. Derek moves back, so that he’s half out of the room. Escaping, always escaping.

“How do you know that? What does that mean?” Scott asks.

“A witch told me,” Stiles says, amused. They don’t believe him. Derek is almost all the way out the door. “In a past life, I had my soul broken apart and tied to another.” The pitch of his voice decreases dramatically, pause for effect. “I created a soulmate.”

Deaton stares at him. Out of anyone, he would be the only one who might be able to believe Stiles.

“Who?” Deaton asks, after a long few minutes of truly awkward silence.

Derek’s not in the doorway anymore, Stiles can hear his heavy footfalls getting further away from the room.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles says, looks at the ceiling. “He doesn’t love me.”

 

 

In the Symposium, Aristophanes talks about humans with four arms, four legs, one head, but two faces. Humans were so powerful like this, that the gods tore them apart, rendering their soul in half. Humans were then forced to live their lives searching for their soulmate, to become complete again. It’s said that there was no greater joy in finding one’s soulmate. That life would be truly complete with the other.

Stiles wishes it were true.

 

 

On the ride back from Mexico, Derek says, eyes wide, “I know you, don’t I?”

Stiles insides tangle up. Everyone in the Jeep looks at Derek surprised. Stiles takes in the baby face, round cheeks, ears sticking out. The ache doesn’t lessen. Calming his heart down, Stiles laughs.

“You really don’t.”

 

 

In some lives, Stiles was a real go-getter. When he realized that Derek was out there, he found Derek and befriended him, insisting that they know each other. In some lifetimes, he told Derek everything and in some he just let them build a natural dialogue. In some lifetimes, he never found Derek at all. In some, one of them died before getting to the other.

In this lifetime, Stiles thinks he’ll be content with just letting them be. The fact that they were born in the same town is a miracle in and of itself. Maybe they were meant for something different. This life could be a turning point.

 

 

Stiles makes the mistake of going with Scott to scope out the Preserve for evidence of the GI guys, black ops, whoever they are. There’s no bat in this situation, Stiles figured it would just be then, strolling through the woods, checking for booby traps. He’s wrong.

Derek’s there, leather jacket like armor, with his equally leathered girlfriend. Fuck buddy. Braeden. Whatever she is, it sets Stiles’ teeth on edge. It feels _wrong_ like when you pull the tag off a shirt, but the plastic stays behind and drags against your skin when you move. It’s completely possessive and jealous. Stiles’ _soul_ belongs with Derek’s _soul_ , but he has no idea, so he’s off gallivanting around. Floosy.

“Are you going to be okay?” Scott asks, frowning at Stiles. Stiles jerks his shoulder in something that resembles a shrug. He meets both Braeden and Derek’s eyes deliberately, nodding in greeting. Braeden nods back, but Derek looks away.

They haven’t really talked since Deaton’s. Stiles doesn’t mind. It makes things easier for him when he’s avidly ignoring the situation.

“You didn’t tell me this was a group activity,” Stiles says. It sounds like he’s teasing. He’s not. Scott shoves their shoulders together and shrugs, Stiles feels himself loosen up. It’ll be alright.

They fan out.

Stiles regrets not bringing his bat. He could drag it on the ground, try to trigger a trap. Instead, he’s crouching and looking for disruptions in the foliage like he’s Aragorn or something. He’s not Aragorn, so he can’t tell. He walks slowly, but --

There’s a click-clack as a trap triggers. Stiles freezes, unwilling to move. Once he lets the pressure off whichever foot activated the trap, he’s probably something that resembles _dead_.

“Hey, guys?” Stiles calls, voice loud and shaking. “I think I found one. My body is physically on one, I think I might die if I move. Guys? Anyone? Olly olly oxen free? Seriously, I can’t stay still this long! I --”

Stiles is unceremoniously yanked to the side. His back hits a tree, pain blossoming where he impacted, muscles tensing. It’s better than being in the trap. It snaps up harshly, cracking loudly in the air like a shot. The lines of the netting glow deep red, sizzling as they burn. Yeah, Stiles would definitely be dead.

It’s Derek’s solid weight that presses him into the tree. If anything, the realization makes his heart beat faster, adrenaline overlaid on top of adrenaline. It’s not fear, though, just a burning arousal that he can’t fight. It’s so hot and sudden, that he feels _cold_. Like his nerves can’t handle the heat so they’re just going numb. Derek leans into him, nose on his neck.

The touch sends Stiles’ head into a dizzy spiral of lust. For a full minute, it’s them pressed head-to-toe, Derek inhaling in his neck, hips twitching forward. Stiles is so hard that it hurts. He feels like prey, pinned to the tree. As overwhelming as the urge to press against Derek is, he stays still. He doesn’t want to break the spell, pop the bubble that they’re in.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to realize what’s happening. He pulls back with a growl and stomps off without looking at Stiles, anger held in his tightly coiled muscles. The tension evaporates once Derek is gone. Stiles slumps against the tree, dizzy and unsure.

He doesn’t bother sticking around after that, but it doesn’t matter because Derek comes to him.

“What was that today?” Derek asks, voice a low rumble. Stiles jerks and flails out of his chair in surprise. Soul bond or not, Derek is a sneaky motherfucker. Stiles’ face heats up, his hands tingle with anxiety.

“What was that?” Stiles echoes. “I’m pretty sure you saved my ass from that trap. Thanks, by the way, buddy. I appreciate not being dead. I would have said it earlier, but you ran away.”

Derek stiffens defensively.

“I didn’t run away.”

Stiles feels anger spiral through him, hot and unrelenting. He’s so sick of it. Sick of the way Derek avoids him and pushes him away. Sick of how he has this person in front of him, the person _meant for him_ , and there’s nothing Stiles can say or do to make him stay.

“You totally did. Why _did_ you run away? My boner totally scary?” Stiles asks, sneering.

“You have a girlfriend,” Derek says. Stiles laughs at him, turns back to his computer. They’re not having this conversation.

“Excellent observation, Sherlock.”

“This is exactly why we can’t -- This is why there will never be anything between us.”

The white noise in Stiles’ head kicks up a notch.

“You’re a _child_ ,” Derek says, plainly. His voice isn’t even raised, but he might as well be screaming it in Stiles’ face. “You don’t know what it means to even be in love.”

“I’ve been in love!” Stiles protests. He _has_. He’s been in love since the first time he met Derek. Since they build a house together with their own hands. In that life they raised crops together, told each other stories. Their lives _revolved_ around each other. They loved each other so much that they made sure they would never, ever be apart. That kind of love burns from the inside out.

God, if they could see themselves now.

“A years-long obsession with a girl you’ve never been with isn’t love, Stiles.”

Stiles flinches back from the comment, as if it was a physical blow. Derek must see it, something immediately comes over his face. It looks like remorse, but Stiles really doesn’t care. He’s suddenly, hideously infuriated.

“You’re such a bastard,” Stiles says, voice losing any semblance of calm. “Don’t act like you know me.”

Derek doesn’t know Stiles at all. Derek knows _nothing_ about Stiles and Stiles knows everything about Derek. Stiles knows what kinds of food he doesn’t like and what life he stopped liking them in. Stiles knows the stupid music he prefers, knows how he takes every beverage imaginable. If Stiles asked Derek about any of his preferences, Derek would have no idea.

“Stiles,” Derek says, frustrated.

“ _What_?” Stiles asks. “Jesus, why are you still here? You know how I feel, I know how you feel. I can’t help how _bitter_ that sounds, either. Can we just ignore it?” 

_Please_ , Stiles wants to beg. He can’t handle these conversations. He doesn't understand the stark vulnerability in Derek’s eyes, he can’t _handle_ it anymore.

“What makes you think I deserve something like that?” Derek demands, sudden and sharp, completely out of left field.

“What?” Stiles asks, mind stuttering to a halt. Since when is this about _that_? “That doesn’t make sense. That’s not what this is _about_.”

“It’s not?” Derek asks, hands clenching into fists. “How can you be with someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

“Doesn’t deserve _me_ or doesn’t deserve to be _loved_?” Stiles asks. Those are two very different questions. Stiles isn’t any better than Derek in this situation. When Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles scoffs, low in his throat.

“This isn’t even about you and me, is it?” Stiles asks. He still feels like his nerves are fried. It’s one thing after another. Derek keeps pushing and Stiles is sick of the pressure. When Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles snarls at him, “Maybe you _don’t_ deserve it.”

As soon as it comes out of Stiles’ mouth, he knows it’s wrong. It tastes like acid. It hurts _him_ , he can’t imagine how it makes Derek feel. The barely-there vulnerability in his eyes evaporates completely. The look in his eyes is hard, shuttered. Stiles thinks, with a vicious menace, _yeah, fuck off_. It’s mean. Stiles cares so much it’s making the pressure build behind his eyes, but he dismisses it anyway.

“Are we done?” Stiles asks.

For a minute it looks like Derek wants to argue, maybe pursue it further, but there’s no point. Derek doesn’t want to deal with Stiles in anyway that’s healthy or productive and Stiles is just _over it_. Thinking about them exhausts him. He’s trying to just exist without so much pain. Malia helps and he really does care about her. Stiles just doesn’t need the reminder that she’s _not Derek_. It hurts less when he doesn’t think about it.

“Yeah, we’re done.”

That sounds pretty final.

Stiles doesn’t turn around when Derek walks out of the room.

 

 

There are cultures that believe soulmates are simply the same soul. The soul becomes conscious and aware of its loneliness. It splits itself into two beings that are perfect for each other. Essentially, it’s perfect for itself.

Maybe that’s the problem. Two souls are too many. Conflict of interest.


	2. pray it all away but it continues to grow

There’s a figure leaning in his doorway when he gets back to the apartment after work. He’s known this was going to happen all day. It was just a feeling under his skin, a happy buzzing that won’t relent. It doesn’t make Derek’s appearance any less startling though.

Highlighted by the lone bulb above Stiles’ door, Derek looks different. His hair is longer, Stiles can see where it’s in a loose braid at the nape of his neck. The lines of his body are less tense, smaller and more lean than he was before. The blood rushing in Stiles’ ears gets louder as he approaches.

Derek hasn’t looked at him yet, which Stiles is thankful for. Despite the fact that Derek definitely knows he’s approaching, it makes it less awkward. He doesn’t know what he would do if Derek watched him walk all the way up to his door.

It isn’t until Stiles is toeing his welcome mat that Derek looks up. The look in his eyes is soft, welcome. Stiles squints at him, unsure of what to make of the situation.

“What’s up, dude?” Stiles asks, trying not to be immediately dismissive. It’s hard. He wants to kick Derek’s ass and kiss him in equal amounts. There’s no deny how his nerves are lighting up, though, just from being close to him again, after all this time.

“Hey,” Derek says, soft and smiling. It makes Stiles’ head swoon with all the blood that’s rushing around in his ears. 

“Hey,” Stiles echoes. They stand there and look at each other for a beat longer. “I guess -- Do you want to come in?”

Derek nods. 

Stiles has been in this apartment for 8 months and once Derek steps into it, the space is ruined forever. Not ruined in the bad sense, either. Ruined in the fact that _now_ it feels like home, merely because Derek is occupying the space. If that doesn’t throw a wrench behind Stiles’ ribcage and twist his heart, Stiles doesn’t know what _will_. It does, wrench and everything. 

Derek looks around politely. Stiles can see his nostrils flare, picking apart the scents, eyes going to the corners of the room to scope out the area. When Stiles thinks about Derek, there’s always a small ball of irritation tucked behind his sternum. White-hot annoyance, if you will. Stiles feels it now, like a low-hum in his veins. He crosses his arms and stares Derek down.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. It’s not kind.

“I wanted to see you,” Derek says. There’s something in his eyes, _something_ there, that makes Stiles’ heart crumble to pieces. _Why_ is Derek looking at him like that?

“Why the hell would you want to see me?” Stiles asks. The last time Stiles saw Derek, he was smiling at Scott and getting in a car to road trip with Braeden. For a decent chunk of time, Stiles thought Derek was _dead_. He thought: _See you in the next life!_ Except Derek wasn’t and Stiles didn’t even have time to celebrate before Derek was disappearing off the face of the Earth. Not hide nor hair, for two years.

What the fuck.

“Stiles --”

“Two years, Derek!” he explodes, unable to help it. “Two entire years. You can’t just waltz back into my life like it’s no big deal! How did you even find my apartment --”

Two years and Derek’s hands are warm on his face, guiding him into a kiss. It’s the best kiss of Stiles’ life. Unexpected perfection. His nerves spark, making him gasp. Everything is _right_ , finally, ache in his chest evaporating with the physical contact. It’s a dizzying release. He hadn’t realized just how oppressive the feeling was until now. It makes him feel _lighter_ , free.

It’s like eating when you’re starving, stomach clenching so tight that you _need it_. It’s coming home to your bed after a long day of work, that feeling you get when you take your shoes off. It’s a shower after being outside all day, when air conditioning kicks on in the summer. Every thing that makes you sigh in relief is coming to a head where their lips meet. It’s the crescendo. 

Stiles wrenches himself out of Derek’s grasp, moves to the other side of the room. Chest heaving, he stares at Derek, confused. The tips of his fingers tingle with anxiety.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, voice trembling out of his chest. He wishes Derek couldn’t hear that, wishes he could swallow it back down. He sounds scared and angry. Derek looks shocked, eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Derek says, exhaling. That’s not a surprise, Derek doesn’t, he isn’t -- “I should have said something first, I’m sorry.”

“You -- You’re _sorry_?” Stiles has slipped into an alternate dimension. Derek Hale doesn’t apologize for his actions. Derek Hale isn’t _remorseful_. The only emotion Derek has that even resembles remorse is self-flagellating guilt.

“I should have said something, I should have called --”

“Two years, Derek! Not two weeks or two months. Shit, six months, that might’ve been okay, but two _years_.”

“I know! I just couldn’t deal with being around you until I got everything sorted out --”

“You were never around me! Remember how you were _avoiding me_? I do --”

“The dreams were just too much at first, I couldn’t --”

“Just because you didn’t want to deal with my feelings for you -- Wait --”

“Stiles --”

“Dreams?” Stiles’ veins knot up, pulse pounding in his head. His heart is like a dead weight in his chest. Derek gets quiet, eyes on Stiles.

“I died, Stiles,” Derek says. His name, full stop.

“You _died_?” Stiles asks. If Derek died, but he’s here, which means that he _remembers_. That the dreams -- That kiss was a product of him remembering. Stiles feels tears prickle at his eyes, anxiety making him nauseous.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, again, stepping closer. Stiles shoves himself back, further away from Derek. “Stiles, please.” 

His name, open break, plead. Stiles takes a deep breath.

“You didn’t want me,” he says, trying to force some conviction into his tone. “You _didn’t_ \--”

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Derek says.

“Even when one of us doesn’t remember, you still feel it,” Stiles says, feeling mean and cruel, torn open and laid bare. “That compulsion, we’re drawn to each other, memories or not.”

“I know --”

“Well, you ignored it,” Stiles says. “You ignored it and you -- You weren’t ever going to fall in love with me, before.”

“You don’t know that,” Derek says, voice hardening. Stiles laughs and it burns its way out of his throat. It’s not funny, none of this is _funny_. Derek can’t just come back into his life after Stiles has made a valiant effort to move on. He can’t just tell Stiles that he _remembers_. 

“Oh, I do,” Stiles says. When Derek tries to step closer, Stiles moves away, keeps the couch between them. “You were never going to let yourself love me. Whatever martyr complex you had, you were going to hold onto. _Don’t_ \--” 

Derek stops trying to edge closer. Stiles knows if he lets Derek touch him again, he won’t have the strength to keep saying no. 

“Just, leave, please. Derek, I can’t do this. Please, just go.”

The disappointment on Derek’s face is so readable. Stiles didn’t realize just how hidden Derek kept his expression. Seeing it laid bare is breaking Stiles’ heart all over again. 

“Stiles, please,” Derek says. It crackles out of his throat like static, clinging to the air between them. Stiles wants to reel him in. The desire to steady Derek, to hold him and languish him with every attention Stiles possesses, is making him _ache_. 

The couch between them, Stiles says, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

 

 

Stiles wishes that was it, but apparently he was just disillusioned to think that after rejecting Derek, Derek would go away. Not that he tries to talk to Stiles again, oh no. It’s that he talks to Scott and Liam. He gets to know Kira, he connects with Malia. He talks to _Lydia_. Which, what the hell. He insinuates himself in the pack without ever having to enter Stiles’ sphere. He interacts with the others separately, without ever crossing paths with Stiles.

Which, Stiles is happy about, right? That’s what he wanted when he kicked Derek out. He wanted Derek to disappear and not pursue him. It doesn’t stop it from hurting, though. Especially not when Scott mentions his name, mentions Derek helping hone Malia and Liam’s wolfy skills. Scott’s eyes get this panicked look, like he’s worried he’s going to offend Stiles, guilty eyes sliding away so they’re aimed at the floor and not Stiles’ face. It’s the worst.

“Sorry,” Scott says, for the one thousandth time that it happens. Scott was telling Stiles about his day and he just happened to bring up that Derek’s building a house. A _house_. That’s permanent, terrifying. B-T- _dubbs_ , Stiles, the pack is all helping out, it’s going to be so great! Derek is so great, now! It’s like he’s really found peace with himself, wow!

“It’s fine,” Stiles lies. When Scott gives him the most unimpressed face imaginable, Stiles amends, “Okay, it’s not fine, but I have to deal, right? I chose this.

“You could _un_ -choose it, can’t you?” Scott asks. “I mean, he knows now. That’s crazy, right? It’s good! You guys could be great together.”

“Except that we can’t,” Stiles says, sighing. Scott bites his lip and doesn’t say anything. They’ve had this talk more than once since Derek’s been back. It’s not possible.

The truth is, he’s too bitter about what happened before Derek left to even entertain the idea of starting a relationship with him. It’s all _too much_. The snide comments and remarks. Derek’s firm denial of what Stiles had to say about the situation. He didn’t want to believe Stiles, he didn’t let himself believe Stiles. There’s no way they were going to fall in love if Derek hadn’t died, not in this lifetime.

It hurts to think about. Stiles knows that they’re good together. Even now, if Stiles could just shed the animosity, they could pick up and start something. Derek wouldn’t deny him, he doesn’t think. That _kiss_ is full evidence of that. When Stiles closes his eyes, he can still taste Derek’s desperation on his tongue. 

Stiles aggressively pushes the thought out of his mind. It doesn’t matter what Derek _would_ or _wouldn’t_ do now that he knows. The fact of the matter is that before he “evolved”, he wasn’t having it. He wasn’t having _Stiles_ , he wanted nothing to do with Stiles. There’s nothing that can make the pain of that reality go away for Stiles. He spent months believing that he just wasn’t good enough for Derek. Even if Derek and him being together somehow soothed that ache in his chest, he would still be second guessing everything between them. 

“I’ll work on forgiving him,” Stiles says, slowly. Scott brightens. “So the pack can hang without having to worry about it. Okay?”

“Yeah, great!” Scott says, wide smile. He’s probably thinking the same thing Stiles is: Maybe if he can forgive Derek, they can be together. 

Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand over his head. Unlikely.

 

 

It takes another three weeks for Stiles to accept Scott’s invite to check out the house. It takes two hours after he’s dressed and ready to go to get in his car. It takes 40 minutes of sitting in the Jeep at the entrance to the Preserve to finally drive up.

The house is bare bones, stacks of wood. Stiles doesn’t see anyone, but Scott sitting on the floor, surrounded by framework walls. He spreads his arms, smiles stretching across his face. 

“What do you think?” Scott asks. Stiles studies the house seriously, trying not to give into the urge to look around for Derek. 

“Dude, it’s good,” Stiles says. “I can’t believe you guys are doing this.”

“Nah, it’s like, mostly the contractors, but Derek knows the guys, so they’re letting us help.” Scott bounces his eyebrows. “Teamwork. We’re going to do more once they do the insulation and walls. Painting, tiles, furniture. The whole shebang!”

“You’re really excited about this whole manual labor thing,” Stiles says, sitting next to Scott, pressing close. The house is making him feel unstable. There’s a deep-rooted sense of belonging that he doesn’t understand. If his lives have taught him anything, it’s that the feeling usually means that he belongs. The skeleton of the house is bare, but Stiles imagines it built up and feels an ease in his chest. 

“Not so bad, right?” Scott asks, soft smile on his face. Stiles knocks their shoulders together softly. 

“Yeah, it’s good,” Stiles says, swallowing down the nostalgic feeling he’s getting. There’s absolutely no reason for it. He’s never even been in this part of the woods. “It’ll be great, when it’s done.”

“Yeah, you’re -- Oh, he’s back,” Scott says, ducking his head. 

“It’s cool,” Stiles says, trying to relax. Anticipation sends his blood humming: Derek, Derek, Derek. ”I mean, coming to his house, I’m prepared to see him.” Which is a lie, they both know it. Nothing fully prepares Stiles to see Derek. 

When Derek steps out of the Toyota, he does a poor job of hiding his pleased smile. It’s gentle, curving into his cheeks. Stiles blinks at him, unsure of how to process that kind of smile. 

“You’re here,” Derek says, stopping in front of them and rocking on his toes. It’s like he’s nervous or something.

“I’ve passed into another dimension,” Stiles says, faintly. “What are you doing? Are you fidgeting? Who does that? Where’s Derek Hale, what have you done with him?”

It’s easy to fall back into the banter. No matter how tense things got between them before, if they were arguing or teasing each other, it’s like the words they said out of spite weren’t said at all. It’s Stiles’ safety net when it comes to Derek. It doesn’t mean anything.

“You always did say I looked different when I was happy,” Derek says. 

That snaps something in Stiles’ chest, _reminds_ him. That’s not something Stiles has said to him in this lifetime. It’s something he said in a life where they were best friends and Derek got married to his high school sweetheart. A lifetime where they never progressed past platonic, but Stiles was okay with that. He was happy that Derek was happy, it didn’t matter that they weren’t together.

The words rock down his spine. He takes a step back, swallowing. The air feels too thick to breathe, like it would turn to water in his lungs.

“This was such a bad idea,” Stiles says, stepping away, towards his Jeep to escape. He sees Derek and Scott share a look. Derek takes a steps towards him, stopping and hovering like he remembers that’s not the best idea.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, sounds sincere. “I forget what’s what a lot right now. Everything is mixed up in my head. You should stay.” Scott’s nodding enthusiastically just behind Derek. Stiles gets that, he does. He’s had the dreams all his life, he can’t imagine what it’s like for Derek right now.

“This is so fucked up,” Stiles says, looking at the sky. “I can’t believe _Scott_ is convincing me to hang out with Derek Hale. This has to be an alternate dimension.” 

The secretive smile Derek gives Stiles is enough to take the wind out of Stiles’ sails. It’s almost as if they’re back to being _them_. Not yet, but maybe. They can be friends. They’ve done that before.

 

Being around Derek alleviates the ache in Stiles’ veins. As if the soulbound is just searching for proximity to make things right. It’s like that feeling you get in an airplane when it takes off, when you smell rain in the air. That sweet anticipation of eating mint chocolate chip ice cream when you’ve been craving it for weeks. That idea of _soon_ you’ll be satisfied. _Soon_.

 

 

Stiles starts helping more with the house once the walls and insolation are put up. It’s nice to be around everyone with a purpose, doing something together that doesn’t result in them bleeding. 

Stiles and Lydia paint the entire upstairs in a day. It’s summer, the windows are open, but there’s still sweat slicking the skin between Stiles shoulder blades. Once upon a time, Stiles would have been too self conscious to take his shirt off, but with how hot the house is, it’s just necessity. 

“I’m jealous,” Lydia sighs, brushing the sweat out of her face, into her hair. Stiles snorts through his nose.

“Take your shirt off then, duh,” he says, shrugging. He uses his to wipe the sweat off his face and throws it into the corner. A second later, his hairline is perspiring again. Lydia laughs at him.

“Why, so you can oogle me?” she asks, light hearted, but challenging. Sometimes he wonders if she believes that he actually did get over his crush on her. Really, the declarations of love were just a distraction. Once he met Derek, all bets were off. It’s hard to focus on a crush when you have the love of your life running around town. 

“You know my heart is taken, Lydia,” Stiles says, smirking at her. “You’re hot, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Unfortunately for you, it’s not a tiny red head.”

“I’m not tiny!” she says, pulling off her shirt to reveal a blue lace bra. Stiles hardly even looks at it. She flings the shirt at his head. “One day you’ll tell me who this mystery romance is, right? You’ve been holding out. It’s not someone in one of your classes, is it?”

“God no,” Stiles says, rolling the brush in more paint. The color they chose for the room is a soft blue. It soothes over Stiles’ nerves like a balm. This room would be a good reading room, he thinks, imagining bookshelves. “I don’t fall for someone _that_ fast. I’ve known them longer than that.”

“Oh yeah? What about the Malia thing, then?” Lydia asks. Whenever they talk about when Stiles and Malia were together, Lydia gets prickly. Stiles doesn’t think she ever approved of that. Stiles swallows.

“Rash, hasty, not love,” he lists off. They’ve had this conversation before. “An impulsive decision based on how --”

“Lonely you were, because all of your friends were -- Oh god, it’s not --” Her eyebrows slide up her forehead, like he’s supposed to know what that means. She looks like she _knows_. Stiles goes cold all over, palms getting sticky. 

“Who?”

Lydia looks around, dropping her voice low,

“Is it Scott?”

Stiles laughs so hard that she shoves him into the wet paint to get him to shut up. 

When they trip down the steps, giggling and covered in blue paint, Stiles tries not to notice the way Derek’s eyes track his movements. The tips of his ears are pink. Stiles wishes he didn’t know what that meant.

 

 

It gets easier to be around Derek. Slowly but surely, they fall into a rhythm. Some days are easier than others. Especially when Derek’s hair gets long enough that he pulls it up in a bun -- Stiles wants to sink his fingers into it and _tug_. Especially when Derek starts to fill out from working on the house. Apparently, carrying wood around all day is a great way to build up that muscle again.

It’s excruciating, but it’s not the end of the world for Stiles.

The whole pack ends up in a carefree rhythm. They work on the house and shoot the shit. Sometimes, they swim to escape the heat and Stiles spends the whole time trying _not_ look at Derek’s abs. He spends the whole time with a half-chub anyway. Derek’s ears are pink and Scott keeps bursting out laughing, but it’s less weird than Stiles thought it might be.

After that, he spends more time with Derek one-on-one. He’ll stay after the pack has left and help Derek cook dinner or put together furniture, touch up paint in the rooms. It’s not weird, it gets progressively less weird. They become _friends_.

Stiles can feel it edging closer to the breaking point, though. It’s small things that hint at it. They constantly migrate too far into each other’s personal space. They’ll be looking over the directions for putting together the dining room table and Stiles ends up half in Derek’s lap with Derek’s palm settled on his hip. 

The worse part about it is how easy it is. It’s natural to touch and be touched, to tease and to argue, to grin. It makes Stiles want to fall in with Derek. It’s right under his skin, waiting, simmering on low. Derek can just look at him and Stiles knows that he’s thinking about kissing him. It hurts in the best way. 

 

Stiles isn’t positive how they got here. 

They were arguing about assembling the bookshelves for the blue room and -- Stiles lunged to take a piece from Derek and Derek practically tackled him. They rolled around on the floor, dissolving into breathless laughter. Stiles fit his elbow in every single one of Derek’s ribs, but Derek is stronger than him and has a higher pain tolerance. In no time, Derek has Stiles pinned, thighs straddling Stiles’ waist, trying to pry the piece out of Stiles’ hand. 

It’s hard to breath, laughter making his stomach cramp. Stiles wheezes and flicks the piece away. Derek lunges for it, dropping his torso across Stiles’, one hand still on Stiles’ wrist, tightening. It’s _good_. It makes Stiles all too aware of their bodies pressed together. 

God, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him more than just a hug. Plus, it’s _Derek_. That makes Stiles shivery with want, pulse humming through him. Derek knows it too, head tilting down slightly, nostrils flaring. They’re _so close_. Everything in him is urging him to lean up and kiss Derek, just fucking kiss him, do it, make a decision, fucking kiss him.

Stiles can feel the whisper of Derek’s breath across his lips, he can count his eyelashes. The sun has made his skin spot with not-quite-there freckles across his cheeks. Stiles burns from the inside out.

“Don’t,” he says. Too cowardly to say it louder than a whisper. It ghosts between their lips, hangs there like smoke and fire. He’ll beg if he has to. 

Derek rolls off, lands on his back, and stares at the ceiling before his eyes flutter shut, taking slow breaths. 

“I should go,” Stiles says. The pressure is building behind his eyes. It’s his fault. If he could just _forgive_ Derek, then they could be together. If he could swallow his pride and the scorch of past emotions, they would be okay. 

All he can think of in situations like this is:

_Do you think you could love me?_

_Probably not_.

That still hurts like a mortal wound. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. He says it slow, molasses, like he doesn’t quite want to let go of it. He doesn’t look at Stiles when Stiles leaves the room.

 

There are soulmate myths and traditions in every culture. Jewish, Celtic, Roman, Greek, Egyptian, Sumerian. Stiles hasn’t ever heard of anything like Stiles and Derek existing in the real word. They used magic to manipulate their destiny. There’s no way to tell if soulmates are a natural phenomena or just wishful thinking on everyone else’s part. 

Maybe there’s always those people you feel drawn to. Romantically or platonically, it doesn’t matter. When you’re walking down the street and you just feel like you know a person or _should_ know them: Maybe that’s a soulmate. Maybe Stiles and Derek just took it too far when they went to the witch. 

It wouldn’t surprise him if they created something unique, just for a them. A secret to share between them, like some of Derek’s smiles. 

 

 

Stiles hooks up with some megalomaniac douchebag at Jungle who flexes his muscles at him. When he gets him back to his apartment, he wrecks him so thoroughly that they both forget their own names in the mess of things. He feels absolutely no remorse for kicking him out at 3am.

“Dude, stay home today,” Scott says, the second he gets into the apartment. There’s a cute wrinkle to his nose that’s more disgusted than anything. 

“Oh, dude, you can smell that?” Stiles asks, taking a whiff of his pits. He showered for, like, two hours. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s like, desperate, sweaty sex. You can’t come to the house like that.” 

Not _Derek’s_ house. _The_ house, like it’s public property, like they all own it. 

“Why not?” Stiles demands, throwing on some more deodorant. That should help, right?

“I don’t think it’s polite,” Scott says, rolling his eyes a little. 

“Wha -- We’re not together,” Stiles says. “I know I’ve been hanging out with him a lot, but as _friends_. I just feel better when I’m around him. In a _friendly_ way, you know? Friends-wise.”

“Yeah, but you know he doesn’t exactly feel that way about you,” Scott points out. “So, why show up smelling like you got laid? You smell pretty good, it’s totally shoving it in his face.”

“Oh my god, it would be like bragging that I got laid, wouldn’t it?” Stiles asks. Scott nods at him and grimaces. 

“Maybe make it two days,” Scott says. 

Two days, right. Fuck.

 

 

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about how they used to talk to each other. How they bared each other’s souls with the worst of words. They don’t talk about how they broke each other down bit by bitter bit until all that was left was the white-hot burn of mutilated feelings. They don’t talk about how they built each other up after every fight. How they saved each other, how they worried about each other. 

They just don’t. Stiles is grateful for it.

 

 

Stiles and Derek share a pomegranate on the porch because Derek hasn’t tried one in this lifetime. Juice snakes down their arms and pools in their hands. It tastes like summer, staining their mouths red. 

“Oh god, better than I remember,” Derek moans, taking a bite out of the cluster of seeds like the heathen he is. Stiles likes to take his time, pop the seeds off in handfuls and eat them. Besides, it’s way less messy. Derek has pomegranate juice _everywhere._ It’s in his chest hair. It’s ridiculous. 

Stiles probably smells like a hormone factory with how aroused he is by the sight of it. He wants to lick Derek all over. It doesn’t help that Derek’s hair is down in waves over his back. It’s thick and long, to his mid-back now.

“I like your hair long,” Stiles says, trying not to get too embarrassed. He tries not to pay Derek compliments too often, because it just makes Stiles think about everything he doesn’t have. In this instance it’s necessary because Derek was talking about cutting his hair and Stiles can’t have him doing that.

Derek looks at him with wide eyes and then ducks away to smile. Butterflies accost Stiles’s stomach, he can actually _feel_ himself get red. This is ridiculous.

“Thanks,” Derek says, almost shy, like he doesn’t know what to do with the moment. “I guess I won’t cut it then.”

Stiles bites his lip and rolls his eyes.

“Cool,” he says. They share another tentative smile. 

They go quiet after that, until Derek starts _slurping_ at his hand and arm. Stiles looks over and he can see the drag of Derek’s pink tongue on his skin and wow, yeah, that’s definitely his dick hardening in his jeans. The look in Derek’s eyes is teasing: hooded and hot. Shivers crawl up the back of Stiles’ skull. 

They’re leaning towards each other, just a fraction. Derek is licking his fingers, clearing them of juice. Stiles can’t stop watching his tongue and lips, fingers disappearing into his mouth. There’s juice on Derek’s beard. Stiles knows from past experience -- past _life_ experience -- that at this length Derek’s breath would be pretty soft. Just long enough to drag him towards Stiles with, to steer him into a kiss. 

Stiles snaps out of it and jerks away so hard that he falls off the porch. 

He rolls on the ground, pomegranate lost to the dirt, and stares at the sky morosely.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he says, as Derek bursts into hysterics, hair falling in a curtain over his face.

 

 

Derek says, “Why are we doing this? Why are we around each other, but not together, Stiles? I can’t stand it. You’re around -- I want you around -- It’s just not easy. I want to be with you. We’re both here, we both know. I wish I knew why we can’t -- What’s holding you back?”

Derek says, “I can you hear your heart everywhere I go. From miles away. It’s always the same tempo as mine. It’s always in my head. That _means something_ , Stiles.”

Derek says, “You want to be with me, I know you do. I can _tell_. You look at me the same way I look at you. You lo --”

Stiles says, “ _Don’t_ ” like it’s being physically ripped out of him, words torn bloody from his esophagus.

Stiles says, “Do _not_ say -- Just don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Derek says, “It doesn’t have to be hard. You could make this easy for us. Just -- Forgive me. Forgive everything that happened before. We would be so good together, you know that we would. We can make this work.”

Derek says that _now_ , but _before_ \-- They were cruel to each other. They deliberately hurt each other. That’s not a good foundation for any kind of relationship. Things might be different now, but that doesn’t excuse what happened, what they said to each other. 

Stiles says, “I can’t,” and doesn’t come back for a week. 

 

 

“I’m leaving,” Derek says, staring at the floor. A strand of hair has escaped from his loose bun and trails over his forehead. Derek pushes it out of his face and raises his eyebrows, waiting for Stiles to react.

“You’re leaving?” Stiles asks, shifting his weight. The door is right behind him, he could leave now, escape the mounting tension between them.

“I don’t want to go, but I have to,” Derek says. “I can’t be around you like this, like --” Derek cuts himself off, but Stiles gets it. The half-aborted kisses, drawn out wrestling matches. They constantly make excuses to spend time in each other’s company. Neither of them are dating anymore. It’s not --

“Where to?” Stiles asks, swallowing. Derek shrugs and smiles at him, crows feet splayed at the corner of his eyes. Stiles feels tears sting his eyes. This is the last thing that he wants. God, he wants Derek to stay, he wants them to _be_ \--

The pads of Derek’s thumbs wipe away his tears. Stiles laughs, trying to shake off the onset of emotion. It gets harder when Derek isn’t there, like his soul is vibrating with anger, begging him to make Derek stay. Please, please, _please_.

“Sorry, I just --” Stiles shakes his head and goes to move away. He can’t deal with this, he just needs to get away from Derek. Cry it out, be miserable, move on. It’s a time honored tradition that Stiles has spent lifetimes doing.

Instead of letting him move away, Derek tightens his hold, reels Stiles in. It’s obvious what he plans to do before he does it. Stiles knows Derek, knows exactly when he plans on making a move. Stiles doesn’t fight it, he just lets himself be kissed.

The effect is instantaneous: warmth spreads through his chest, making him dizzy. He grabs at Derek’s shirt to anchor him. Derek’s hand grab at his hips and brings them together, hips and chest making contact. Stiles is already hard and desperate. More than anything he just wants to keep Derek there with him.

Every protest goes out the window as Stiles sinks further into the kiss. Derek’s hands aren’t hesitant as they clench in his shirt, at his hips, drawing him in. Stiles lets him touch, lets him take what he wants. It’s what Stiles has been waiting for, what he’s been craving. The sweep of Derek’s hands over his shoulders, his chest, cupping the back of his head. Derek pulls him in-in and Stiles lets him, Stiles _needs him_. 

“Can we --” Stiles won’t regret it, he won’t --

“Yeah, fuck --” Derek exhales into Stiles’s mouth and tears his shirt off, hands running down Stiles’ sides. As if he was just waiting for Stiles to ask, as if -- The button on Stiles’ pants is popped, front getting peeled open before Stiles even registers it. Derek draws back to pull off his own shirt. Instead of pushing him down on the couch or grinding against him on the coffee table, he pulls Stiles up the stairs and pushes him into the bedroom.

Stiles bounces on the bed, watching as Derek steps out of his jeans. They’re crashing like waves and Stiles is reveling in every moment. The briefs come down next, Derek’s hard cock bouncing against his stomach.

Derek moves on to Stiles’ pants, yanking them off without ceremony until they’re both naked. Stiles looks at Derek with wide eyes. There’s so much _skin_. Stiles would be worried about moving too fast, but the entirety of his life has been leading up to this moment. That’s foreplay enough. 

The take a minute to look at each other. Derek’s summer tanned, all hard muscles. He pulls the ponytail out of his hair and shakes it out so that it falls in dark waves over his sun-kissed shoulders. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with desire, burning a hole in Stiles. God, they’re going to do this, they’re actually going to do this.

Derek’s dick is already standing at attention, full and red. Stiles loves the trail of hair spanning the flat of Derek’s belly, thickening as it gets lower, surrounding his crotch and thighs. Stiles is going to get his tongue on everything, he decides, lunging forward so he can drag Derek to him by his hips.

Their mouths collide, teeth clicking. When they kiss, Stiles can taste Derek’s smile. This is a whole new kind of homecoming. There’s a bursting feeling in his chest that keeps expanding with every new point of contact. 

It’s like Derek is trying to make up for lost time by touching Stiles everywhere. His hands move over Stiles’ sides, his arms, his head, his thighs. Derek’s fingers draw across Stiles’ body. It might be that he’s trying to mold Stiles into an entirely new shape with the flat of his hands. 

“God, you look amazing,” Derek says, pulling back just far enough. Stiles has no idea, but it can’t be anything compared to the way Derek looks, staring at him like he wants to devour him. 

“Can I just --” Stiles pushes at Derek until he moves back and swings them around so that Derek drops back on the bed, staring up at Stiles. Stiles likes this view better, Derek’s legs spread for him. “I’m gunna -- Yeah.”

Stiles starts at his neck, biting and licking until Derek is pushing up against him, cock sliding along Stiles’ stomach, grinding against him. Stiles can feel where the tip is sticky with precum. It catches on his skin. Stiles grins and kisses down Derek’s torso, scraping his teeth over the bump of his ribs, kissing where Derek’s heart is pounding in his chest. They’re pulses are probably carrying the same rhythm, synced up. 

When Stiles gets to the vee of Derek’s hips, he can’t help teasing. Licking and biting at the skin until Derek is trying to grind into Stiles’ chin to get friction. Stiles bites him one more time on his hip and doesn’t hesitate in swallowing him down. It takes a few passes, but Stiles gets him slick, wet and sloppy, with his tongue. 

“Oh fuck,” Derek hisses, abs jumping. With one hand, Stiles works Derek’s dick, the other running along his thigh, cupping his balls, and trailing his perineum. 

“Please say you like getting fucked,” Stiles says, applying pressure below Derek’s balls. Derek jumps the tiniest bit, his dick trails Stiles’ jaw, getting precum on his skin.

“Yeah, jesus, I can’t stop thinking about your fingers,” Derek says, exhaling. His voice sounds broken in the best way, needy and embarrassed. There’s no way he’s used to asking for what he wants. Stiles wants to make him beg, but he wants Derek to feel _good_.

“Where’s the lube?” Stiles asks. 

“Bathroom,” Derek says. 

“Who keeps their lube in the bathroom?” Stiles demands, hating the fact that he has to get up. Seriously, what the hell.

“It’s weird to keep it under my bed,” Derek says, with a shrug. 

“The medicine cabinet is better?” Stiles asks, popping up the door. The lube’s there, next to a box of condoms. He grabs the whole box and the bottle, throwing them next to Derek. He’s scooted up the bed now, dick still hard against his stomach. Thank god.

Stiles doesn’t waste time. Not that he doesn’t take his time, prep is important and all, but he gets right to it. He slicks up his fingers and slides one into Derek at the same time he covers Derek’s cock with his mouth. Derek nearly shouts, stomach flexing, holding himself back from thrusting up. Which is good, Stiles doesn’t want to be gagged right now. 

Derek is groaning as Stiles opens him up, two fingers, deep to the root. He looks picture perfect, sweat on his skin, mouth open. His hands clench in the sheets, Stiles wants to obliterate him until he can’t remember anything but Stiles’ name. He wants Derek to chant it, unable to help it. 

When he gets to three, Derek says, “God, just get in me, please.” It’s the please that does it. The little desperation in Derek’s voice has Stiles fumbling with lube-slick fingers, trying to get the condom open. 

“God, why do they --” Stiles asks, getting the foil between his teeth. The condom pops out, jumping like a fish and landing on the bed. Stiles picks it up with ginger fingers, assessing for damage as Derek huffs at him, amused and impatient. It’s fine, Stiles rolls it on and goes back to fingering Derek, just to be sure.

“God, I can’t wait to get inside you,” Stiles says, forehead resting on Derek’s hip as he works his fingers. “I’ve been thinking about it since I formed a sex drive. Seriously, the most vivid dreams. Like, that time in Vegas, oh my god.”

“That sucked,” Derek says, voice hitching. “I had no idea who you were. I just left --”

“God forbid you leave a one night stand,” Stiles says, breath _whoosh_ ing through his teeth as he makes room and flips Derek over. The smooth expanse of his back is well muscled, triskeline stark between his shoulder blades, begging to be bitten. His hair is a wave curtain that Stiles wants to get his hands in. Later, Stiles thinks, hands parting Derek’s cheeks, skin slick. It’s all sweat and lube and -- Stiles lines his dick up and pushes in. Slowly -- Slowly --

Derek whimpers and thrusts back the smallest bit, pulling Stiles in. 

“ _Oof_ ,” it’s tight and hot, wet with lube. Stiles is going to die, there’s no words for how good it feels. Derek is impatiently rotating his hips, arching back on Stiles until Stiles’ brain gets with the program and he starts thrusting. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Stiles says. It’s more than that. Derek feels _perfect_ , Stiles doesn’t know how else to put it. He could wax poetic, but he gets lost in the sensations. The slide of his dick into Derek, smooth in-and-out strokes. He watches Derek’s body take him in, watches the muscles his back tense. His head thrown back, needy gasps escaping his mouth. Stiles wants to devour him. 

They move together until Stiles gets bored. Then, he stretches himself over Derek, toes scrambling for purchase, relishing the press of skin. Stiles tests different angles until the breath in Derek’s throat hitches and he chants, “right there, right there, fuck”, and Stiles gets a cramp in his calf from ramming into him, hitting his prostate until he comes. Only then does Stiles let himself come, grinding into Derek almost frantically, coming with his mouth breathing hot and wet on Derek’s sweaty, salty back. 

They fall together for a few minutes, breathing heavily, before Derek is kissing him again, demanding. Stiles lets him take and take, still worn out. 

Derek says, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it” and fingers Stiles open while his cock is still soft and too sensitive. He draws it out: one finger for a long time, two when Stiles starts to get hard, three when Stiles starts to beg. Derek smirks at him, smirking like he _knows_. It’s a long time before Derek gets in him, longer than Stiles thinks he’s _ever_ had to wait for someone to fuck him. 

Derek sits him up, makes Stiles sit in his lap, on his dick. The only way they can move is in waves, grinding together, tiny aborted thrusts. Somehow, Derek still makes it good. He kisses Stiles the whole time. It’s all tongue and lips, hands on Stiles’ face as he humps into him with close friction. Stiles can’t help the noises that he makes: they’re desperate and breathy. It’s like Derek is trying to crawl inside of his body and live in his rib cage. His hands seer hot on his skin: his thighs, his ass, trailing over his back. 

Derek say, “I didn’t think you would let me have you like this. I’m so happy you said yes. You feel so perfect around me and in me, god, Stiles. You were fucking made for me, baby, you know that. You’re so perfect and so good. Thank you, fuck, Stiles.”

It’s too much. Everything that Stiles has been holding back surges past the poorly constructed dam in his chest and spills over. He’s bursting at the seams with feelings, overwhelmed as Derek moves like a slow ebbing tide. Derek’s hands guide his face into kisses and Stiles can’t -- He can’t handle the feeling in his chest. It’s too much, it’s too --

“Please look at me,” Derek says. His voice is a low whisper, breaking, begging. Stiles meets his eyes, not surprised when he feels tears trickle down his own face. Derek’s eyes are more vulnerable than he’s ever seen them. There’s a film of water there too, like Derek is feeling the same things that Stiles is, like they’re just as overwhelming. 

“Who the fuck cries during sex?” Stiles asks, voice lodged uncomfortably in his throat. He sniffles as Derek’s thumb wipes away his tears. 

“It’s okay,” he says, voice low, blinking the water from his eyes. He rocks into Stiles, so gently, Stiles doesn’t know if he’ll ever come like this. He’s hypersensitive to touch, gasping as Derek grabs his cock and pumps him in a steady rhythm. “God, you’re so amazing like this, Stiles, so perfect. I love you so much.”

That does nothing to stem the flow of tears. If anything it makes it worse. Stiles lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob and kisses Derek hard and unrelenting, grinding down until their breathing gets more labored, until they’re just gasping into each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck,” Derek says, when he comes. Stiles grabs around Derek’s hand and helps jack himself off, harder and faster until he’s coming on his chest, cum pooling on their hands. The orgasm haze is making his eyelids heavy. He kisses Derek again.

“I love you too,” he says, pressing their foreheads together, tears slipping down his face all over again. It’s like his chest unknots when he says it. Relief flowing through him, like his whole life he’s been on edge, waiting to say it like this. With Derek feeling the same way, loving him the same way.

“I know,” Derek says, kisses his nose and his forehead and the corner of his jaw. He kisses the sharp jut of Stiles’ cheekbone. Stiles runs his nose along Derek’s cheek, feels the wetness there, kisses his heavy eyelids and tastes Derek’s tears on his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, wishing this didn’t have to be the end. Wishing that they could have fixed everything painful between them. 

“Me too,” Derek says, throat clicking as he laughs sarcastically. “It’ll be okay, right? We have more chances not to fuck up. We’re inseparable, literally.” He finally relinquishes the bruising grip on Stiles’ hips to wipe at his eyes. They both laugh, trying to dispel the awkwardness.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, ducking his head. “For this, without expecting me to --”

“I know,” Derek says, holding him tight, like he’s trying to put Stiles’ pieces back together. “I’m going to miss you more than anything, you know.”

“I’ll miss you too, Derek,” Stiles says, and they’re kissing again to shove the emotions back down their throats, so they don’t cry. After Derek slides out and gets rid of the condom, they lie side-by-side, exploring with their hands until they’re both hard again. Derek rims Stiles until Stiles is a begging mess, until he asks for Derek over and over. Derek takes care of him, hard and rough, more desperate with each pass, more desperate as time wears on. 

When they collapse again, Derek cuddles into Stiles’ side, nose in his armpit. Everything is sweat and lube, musky with spunk. Stiles drifts in and out, torn between wanting to stay awake as long as Derek is at his side and being completely worn out. Derek makes the decision for him, pulling away. When he gets up, Stiles’ side is instantly cold. It makes Stiles’ insides frantic, wanting to reel Derek in.

“I should go,” Derek says. Stiles sits up, feels the disappointment in his chest like a thorn.

“I know,” Stiles says. Everything is all wrong, but Stiles can’t -- “I’ll see you next time?”

“Yeah, next time.”


	3. I want to hold you close

_1987_

“Hey, dude, I think this crust punk out here is going to steal something,” Zee says, leaning against the doorway. Stiles looks up from the sketchbook spread on his lap and squints at her. She’s glaring. It’s a harmless look. She reminds him of Scott most of the time: Dark skin and wide brown eyes that appear to do no harm, prankster with a heart of gold and an ability to pout in a way that's nearly lethal.

“How big is his backpack?” Stiles asks, looking back at the book on his lap. He keeps getting the wolf wrong. He had another dream about werewolves last night. One about red eyes and fire. He wants to get the action of the scene, the menace of the hulking figure. It’s translating poorly. He hasn’t been able to concentrate all day. There’s a frantic feeling under the surface of his skin, it feels like anticipation.

“What? It’s, like, a normal backpack.”

“No over-the-shoulder bag?” Stiles asks, gnawing on his pencil. That’s gross. Stiles wipes the spit on his shorts and sighs. “He’s not going to be able to a 12” in his bag comfortably. No one wants to run with that on their back.”

“What about belt buckles? A 7”? There’s some lighters that he’s eyeing, man.”

“I can’t believe you abandoned the counter to warn me about possible theft,” Stiles sighs, sliding the sketchbook into his bag before standing and stretching. He wipes his glasses on his shirt and follows her out, tugging on one of her tight curls. “He could have stolen our whole incense collection by now and _been gone_ , I swear to God.”

“Don’t touch my hair, Stiles,” Zee warns, flipping him off as she hops on the stool. Stiles sticks his tongue at her, scanning the aisles for this thieving punk who was apparently important enough for Zee to tear him away from his drawing, but not important enough to _keep an eye on_.

There’s a few people in the store. A group of girls with blow outs the size of Jupiter and a lone dude tucked into the corner, flipping through the records in W-Z. Stiles assumes it’s a dude. Despite the curtain of dark hair that reaches his midback, he’s still got broad shoulders. Zee wasn’t kidding when she said “punk” either. Stiles can see a plaid shirt under his dark denim jacket. There’s a huge white patch with a face smiling at him, with x-ed out eyes. The shoulders are rows of spikes, silver and gleaming under the fluorescents. Stiles gets a stomach-jerking pulse of adrenaline, nerves making his palms sweat. The way his heart is fluttering around in his chest is completely inexplicable.

“Hey, dude, are you going to buy or are you just staring at the merch, wishing you could afford it?” Stiles asks, trying his best to be intimidating. They’re the same height, but the guy is pretty broad. There might be some brass knuckles hidden in one of his pockets; Stiles doesn’t want to get punched in the face.

The guy whirls, eyes wide and spooked, vinyl clenched to his chest. Stiles’ eyes are stuck on the album cover for some reason, almost like he doesn’t want to look up. It’s a weird cover: Roman influenced maybe, Stiles has no idea. Stiles’ eyes finally drag away from the album art and settle on the guy’s face.

It’s exactly what he was expecting, but without stubble. High cheek bones, sharp ‘v’ of a nose.There’s a panel of his hair shaved out, so Stiles can see his ears sticking out. There’s three silver earrings in his cartilage. There’s a shit-eating grin on Derek’s lips and makes all of the air escape Stiles’ lungs in a rush. His hands are tingling, the base of his skull is tingling. Every nerve in his body is vibrating. Holy shit.

“Whitesnake, really?” Stiles asks. Derek looks down at the vinyl with an almost-guilty expression. His pale eyes go wide.

“Not really,” he says, slotting it back into the bin with a grimace. It’s probably in the wrong place, but Stiles doesn’t care. Stiles doesn’t care about _anything_ except for Derek, standing right in front of him. He looks happy and whole: Unscathed, if the freshness in his face is anything to go by. His heavy eyebrows are poised up, expecting. Stiles laughs, elated feeling breaking out of his chest. Stiles wants to fling himself into Derek’s arms right now, it’s taking everything in him to hold back.

“You seem like a Metallica kind of guy,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow at Derek’s shredded jeans and heavy military boots. On the front of his jacket, there’s a bunch of pins. In the cluster, Stiles spots a rainbow. It makes him blink. That’s really fucking adorable.

“I just saw them at the beginning of this year,” Derek says, smirking. Stiles snorts.

“Bullshit, they were in Europe,” Stiles says. “I work at a record store. Don’t try to impress me with lies.”

“Do I even need to impress you?” Derek asks, still smirking. Apparently, in this life, he’s completely amused by every situation. Unless it’s just to cover up how nervous he is. That’s the only reason why Stiles hasn’t moved yet, he’s _so nervous_.

“God no,” Stiles exhales in a rush. Derek’s grin stretches wide, scrunching his eyes up at the corners. “We should – Oh my God, just, we’ll go – Zee, I’m taking a smoke break!”

“Ew, please go,” she says, making a shooing motion with her hand. Stiles tugs Derek out the back of the store, spilling out into the narrow alley that holds the dumpster they use. Stiles doesn’t even have his smokes on him, but it doesn’t matter, that’s nearly the last thing on his mind.

As soon as the door swings shut behind them, Stiles lunges at Derek, meeting him halfway, mouths finding each other desperately. It’s exactly like he’s always dreamed about, slotting together perfectly. Warmth blooms in his chest, soaks his veins with sunshine. It’s like he’s on fire, but it doesn’t hurt, it’s like it _couldn’t_ hurt.

“It’s you, holy shit, I can’t believe it’s you,” Stiles says, when they part. Derek’s eyes are bright emerald, staring at him, _into_ him. It’s so corny, but that’s exactly how he means it. It’s like all the loose and fractured pieces of him are soothed over, fitting back together.

“I’m so glad I decided to check out this store,” Derek says, laughing. He picks up Stiles up by easily, pulling him in so Stiles has to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist. Hands under his ass, Derek backs him up into the alley wall, head tilted up so they can kiss. Stiles threads his hand in Derek’s hair and _tugs_ , making him moan.

“Shit, you’re legal, right?” Stiles asks. He didn’t even think about asking, before.

“Wait, how old are you?” Derek asks, breathing heavily, lust making his eyes hooded and heavy. Stiles grimaces.

“21,” he says.

“Shit, I’m 18,” Derek says, burying his face in Stiles’ neck. His breath tickles over Stiles’ Adam’s apple right before he scrapes his teeth over Stiles’ skin. His dick is hard in his jeans, trapped and straining.

“That’s a lie,” Stiles accuses. Derek shakes his head, Stiles feels it against his neck.

“Nope.”

“Goddamn it, man, you look 30 _all the time_ , what the hell. I can’t believe I’m older than you, that’s trippy.”

“More trippy than that life where you were a 218 year old dragon who took human form every 15 years?” Derek asks, very seriously, eyebrows climbing up his forehead in disbelief. “I was, like, 16.”

“Dragons don’t have a time frame for someone being _underage_ ,” Stiles says, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. The spikes end up being spikier than Stiles anticipated, “ow, fuck.” Derek laughs at him again, hands tightening on his ass.

“We should move in together, get married.”

“Adopt gay babies and have a horribly gay lifestyle?”

“I’ll introduce you to people as my cousin,” Derek says. Stiles stares at him in disgust. “Just so we don’t have to deal with the homophobia!” Stiles laughs out right and kisses him, chest tight and thrilled, humming with desire and love. It’s overwhelming, crashing behind his sternum like waves. His nerves are crackling like lightning.

“You’re going to hate most of my music,” Stiles warns.

“We’re going to argue all the time,” Derek counters. They’re staring at each other, assessing, unable to hold back their grins. It doesn’t matter, none of that matters. It’s all so insignificant, especially since Stiles has been waiting so many lifetimes for this. His whole existence has revolved around Derek. Since the day they tied their souls together, Stiles has been all about Derek.

“God, I can’t wait,” Stiles says, honestly. He wants all of it. They’ve been through the tasks. They’ve found each other time and time again. They dealt with the heartbreak and the loss, the missteps. Every one of their lives have been shaping them for this moment. This is it, this is the lifetime they get to be together.

Stiles says, “Come on, I gotta show you this comic I’m working on. Werewolves, man.”

Derek says, “Wait, are you writing about 2010? You’re going to create a time conundrum. At least change Scott’s name, so he doesn’t find a vintage comic about his life.”

Stiles says, “Wow, I didn’t even think of that! You’re a genius. This is why I love you.”

Derek says, fond and full of promise, “I love you too, Stiles.”

Stiles’ name, full stop. 

They get their happy ending.

Full stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Artwork By Gri Clover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story set created by the amazing and talented Gri Clover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can reblog this art on [Tumblr](http://gri-clover.tumblr.com/post/118144557331/the-chasms-between-a03-by-queerlyalex-tags), then go to Gri's inbox and shower her with praise and adoration. She said she was doing fanart for this story and gave me a masterpiece. I couldn't be more overwhelmed by what she did for Chasms! She really captured the emotion.


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